


Distraction

by BluePeople



Category: Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 18:45:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3144665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BluePeople/pseuds/BluePeople
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the ball, Tybalt's servant finds him trying to distract himself.   Gen.  Warning for self-harm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distraction

About an hour after that disaster at the ball, I’m hesitating outside Tybalt’s door. You’d think that after so many years he’d have lost the power to scare me, and in general maybe he has, but I can tell this is one of  _those_ nights.  Those nights never end well.  Either he’s going to turn his anger on  _me_  – in which case I’ll get my ass thoroughly kicked because you just don’t brawl with the master of the house – or else…

I open the door.

Ah – tonight it’s the  _or else_. 

He’s sitting there staring at his right arm. I can see the blisters all the way from here – apparently he’s held his hand in a candle. Again.

I feel bad for him and I want to help; crazy as he is he’s almost like family. “Should I wrap that for you, sir?”

He jumps. “Oh – you. No. Go away.”

So I duck out, but only to find salve. And a knife, because I know him. 

I go back in, and this time I make it almost to his side before he sees me. “I told you to go away!”  But he sounds more weary than anything else. 

He’s clenching his fist, irritating the new burn, so I show him the knife. “I’ll lance it for you.”

I look at the floor, he looks away, and we avoid the eye contact that would have been so awkward. He stands, drags his chair around and straddles it backwards. He pillows his head in his left arm and holds out his right. “Take your time.” I can hardly hear; it’s mostly lost in his shirt.

He’s done a thorough job this time – there are big puffy blisters all over his palm. I slice them open one at a time and squeeze fluid out entirely harder than necessary. I put some salve on afterwards, making sure to rub it in with plenty of force, and wrap him in a cloth that’s clean but not very soft.  “Better?”  I say once I’ve yanked it tight.  I figure it’s polite to pretend I haven’t heard him groaning.

He nods into his elbow.  I can see him already making a fist again, though, digging at the bandage.  “Don’t,” I tell him.  “It’ll never heal if you play with it.”

I can see that what happened tonight is still eating at him.  He needs more distraction.  And while a lot of people like distraction in the form of drinks or friends or a girl, the only thing that ever seems to work for Tybalt is pain.  I think it’s a little bizarre… though actually, for all I know, maybe  _he_ thinks it’s bizarre too. We never talk about it.  In fact we’ve gotten very creative in finding ways to  _not_ talk about it – I’ll brush his hair as an excuse to yank til his eyes water, or he’ll demand a shoulder rub and snarl “harder,  _harder_ ” until I’m digging in so hard I’m sweating and he’ll wear the bruises for a week.

Since cooking himself seems to be the order of the day, this time I tell Tybalt I’m going to go draw him a hot bath.  I know he understands what I mean, because he nods with his eyes down instead of telling me to fuck off.

When the bath is ready and I come back to fetch him, though, I find him playing with the candle again.  This time he’s holding his forearm in it, low enough that I can see the flames licking over his skin. His eyes are closed and he’s swaying where he stands. “ _Tybalt_!” I rush over and knock the candle away. “No! Are you insane?”

His brow is drawn in pain now, and he gives me this bewildered, betrayed look, like everything is all my fault.  The smell of burnt hair is disgusting. “I told you I was getting you a bath,” I say as calm as I can.  “Weren’t you listening?”

He looks at the floor. “Couldn’t wait,” he mutters.

“It’s ready. Come on.” I lead him out and he’s docile now, resigned and almost stupid. I change my mind about leaving him alone in the bathroom, because I hardly trust his judgment on the best of days and this certainly is not one of those. For all I know the heat could be actually dangerous, he might go and faint in there and I’ll have to rescue him.

I hope that doesn’t happen; my fingers still hurt from when I dipped them to test the temperature.

Tybalt strips mechanically and stands staring at the tub. I test the water again, and after just a few seconds I have to pull my hand back. I’m starting to think this is a bad idea; maybe I should just get him mad at me and let him throw me into the wall or something until he feels better.

“What happened tonight?” I ask, figuring it must be the fastest way to piss him off.

He shudders. “He kissed her. He  _kissed_ Juliet. That Montague boy  _kissed- ah-”_  He breaks off, and his hands fly to his temples. That’s not good – Tybalt gets headaches sometimes, fits even, when he really loses his cool. I have visions of him pitching headfirst into a tub of near-boiling water, ass naked, thrashing around in there while I stand and wonder what to do…

That won’t be good at all. He usually hates to be touched but at this point there’s nothing else I can think to try. “Sir…?”

He jerks away from my hand and his eyes open.   “No – I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to  _think_  about it, about…” Rather than think about it again, he steps into the nasty bath I’ve drawn.

He cries out and I start forward, thinking he must have changed his mind, but before I can get to him he actually steps the other foot in, pauses for another noise and a full-body shudder, and then  _sits down_.

Have I mentioned Tybalt is crazy?

A moment passes where he holds still, so tense I think he’ll shatter, squeezing his eyes shut. Should I worry?

His head hits the tub rim with a  _thud_ that tells me I should. It looks like he’s passed out. “Are you all right, sir?” I kneel by him, and immediately break into a sweat from the steam. 

But his eyes open. His entire body has turned bright red already, but he looks calm. At peace. I haven’t seen him look like that since I don’t know when, and frankly it scares me.   “I’m fine,” he says thickly. He pats my arm. “Thank you.”

Now I’m  _really_ scared; Tybalt has thanked me a grand total of three times, ever. One of the times we were ten, and one, he was drunk. And the third…

Heh. Anyway.

So he’s not himself right now. I mutter  _cmon, on your feet,_ and somehow he lets me stand him up. Before he thinks to stop me, I dump a bucket of cold water over his head.

_That_ wakes him up, all right. He yelps, shakes his head like a doggy to spray the room with icewater, and then sits back down. He glares at me – the bath is still too hot for comfort, but it’s been diluted past the scalding-agony stage and now he’s grouchy. “Meddling fool.”

His burnt arm is resting on the edge of the tub.  I nudge it off and it splashes into the water.

Tybalt arches halfway to the moon and swears, loud and ragged, the way he does when he’s with a woman. (I have had to overhear this more times than I care to remember.).  I wait with him til he calms down. When he’s leaning back again, face serene, I dilute the water a little more and ask him if he needs anything else.

He shakes his head. He seems exhausted at last. The danger’s over for tonight, and I bow out.

But in the morning, when I wake up to go check on him he’s already gone. I have a bad feeling.

**The End.**


End file.
